The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
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If only there were answers and not prosthetic truths
and prophetic cries of the zero-sum silencing the
sage's riddle-rattled word with eyes that defy reply
it's just a goat we gutted to gather entropy's entrails 
into tomorrow's stew simmering in an 8-ball cauldron 
hands gently receiving the stone tablet punchcards
the ritual of water-treading of the overinitiated 
or the double-blind trial of the well-controlled 

How silly are words for pretending their sleight of hand
when what's needed is a draught of the antimonial cup
to send the silent monk to speak his prayers outloud
head held above the water by the presiding baptizer
an orgiastic journey to steal flaming arrows from
seraphim to pleat worlds into titrated aphorisms
to teach children the art of the uranyl centrifuge
or how to write the secret of self-writing firmwares

Intelligence is but an epiphenomenon of the arrogant
for we who grope know where not to defecate our
assiduous assumptions and choose rather to sup on 
a banquet of unspeakable sumptuousnesses content
to be grass rather than grasseater frustrated by 
strawberry-flavored straw forever grazing upon points 
while the gusto is in the planar cilia fluorescing 
from the gentle tickle of a more humble radiance
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